A Wolf and Her Dog
by D McVetty
Summary: Arya Stark remembers. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Every pack she's tired to make left her, until now. Set in ASOS.
1. Chapter 1

_A Wolf and Her Dog_

An alternate path that Arya Stark could have (and in my opinion should have) taken. The first tiny bit is almost verbatim of the Hound's final scene in ASOS, to set the mood, the rest is my own imagination. This is a one-shot, but I might continue it if there's enough interest.

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><p>Sunlight glinted off the surface of the river as Arya stark drew Needle. The sword was kept sharp by Polliver, even if the castleforged sword was too small to be of any use to the vile man. Her stance moved fluidly, surprising herself with how easily it all came back to her. She could kill him right here, like she killed the fat stable boy and the squire at the inn. It would be the same. It would be easier. She had prayed for the Hound's death every night, but had she ever expected it to be <em>her<em> who killed him?

His eyes opened suddenly, stopping Arya in her tracks. "You remember where the heart is?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"I... I was only..."

"_Don't lie_," he growled. "I hate liars. I hate gutless frauds even worse. Go on, do it."

Arya stood still, her eyes transfixed on his.

"I killed your butcher's boy. I cut him near in half, and laughed about it after." He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. "And the little bird, your pretty sister, I stood there in my white cloak and let them beat her. I _took_ the bloody song, she never gave it. I meant to take her too, I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out before leaving her for that dwarf." A spasm of pain twisted across his face. "Do you mean to make me beg, bitch? _Do it. _The gift of mercy... avenge your little Michael..."

"Mycah." Arya stepped away from him. "You don't deserve the gift of mercy."

She saddled Craven, tugging the ropes. When she mounted, the Hound said, "A real wolf would finish a wounded animal."

Arya gathered the reigns in her hand, staring down at the man she'd wished death on for so many nights. "You shouldn't have hit me with an axe," she said. "You should have saved my mother." She turned her horse and rode away from him, not looking back.

It was some time before she stopped Craven beside the river. Dismounting, she led the horse to the rivers edge to drink. The sun hung heavy in the sky, drooping downwards. Night would fall soon enough, and she would need to sleep. Needle nested in the scabbard at her side, but it wouldn't be enough if bandits or wolves came across her. She was even wary of the two-legged wolves. She couldn't keep going once the sun went down. It would be just as dangerous as sleeping, if her horse took a wrong step and broke a leg.

_Do you know what dogs do to wolves?_

Arya Stark kicked a stone and watched it sink beneath the waters of the river. She didn't know what dogs did to wolves, but she knew what wolves did to dogs. The Hound would die of his wounds, beneath a tree. The more she thought of it, the more fitting it seemed that the man she'd wished dead would die alone under a tree. Not with a blade in his hand and fire in his eyes, but dying of wounds.

Craven lifted her head when Arya turned away. The horse followed the girl closely as she walked up the bank to the road. As Arya climbed into the saddle, she looked back. For one moment, she looked back the way she had come and gave herself pause. She surprised herself when she set Craven back. The horse trotted down the road and Arya watched the hoofprints go the opposite direction.

She found the Hound beneath the tree where she had left him as the sun was vanishing beneath the horizon. In the gloom, she couldn't tell if he was awake, or even alive. She tied Craven to the tree and touched Sandor Clegane's neck. He was feverish, boiling to the touch, and still alive. As she pulled her hand away, his eyes flickered open.

"You came back," he croaked.

Arya didn't answer him, stepping back.

The Hound lifted his lip in a sneer as his eyes slid closed. "You're a coward, craven like your damn horse. You're no wolf."

"I am a wolf," Arya protested sharply. "Wolves have more honor than dogs."

Sandor didn't respond. When she kicked him, he didn't move. For a moment, she thought he was dead. The steady lift of his chest told her otherwise, but she knew he didn't have long before the fever killed him. What she was even doing here, she didn't know. Her eyes shifted to Craven. The mare whickered softly, as docile and easily frightened as a rabbit. Nothing at all like Arya, nothing at all like a wolf.

Setting her jaw, she reached out to shake the Hound. He slumped over with a groan, and Arya frowned in disappointment. _How am I going to get him to a maester?_ She looked at the slumped dog, then to her own horse. Craven was too small to carry the weight of the Hound in his armor. Stranger, the black war stallion, was far better suited for the job, but his temper was worse than his rider's.

Arya grabbed the stallion's saddle and moved closer to the beast. Stranger snorted and wheeled, hooves flailing as his teeth snapped closed inches from Arya's face. She jumped back, losing the saddle to the dirt. "Stupid beast!" she yelled, scrambling to her feet. "You're just going to let him die?"

Not one to relent, Arya picked up the saddle and stepped closer. Stranger lifted his lips, an angry sound bubbling from his throat as he backed away, ears flattened and hooves poised to strike. Craven nickered, Stranger looked her way, and Arya threw the saddle over the war horse's back. With a startled scream, the horse bucked and thrashed, pulling the rope and branch clean off the tree. Arya yelped as she fell back, landing beside the Hound's limp body as Stranger's saddle fell to the ground and the tar-black warhorse bolted down the road into the thickening gloom.

Getting to her feet, Arya kicked the dropped saddle, hard, for good measure. _So much for turning back. I could have been to Saltpans by now. Probably._ She didn't know where the Saltpans were. She didn't know how far it was, or how long it would take her to travel, and she had been captured by too many men to taste freedom, only to have it taken away by someone else. The Hound helped her kill Polliver and the Tickler, and she had forgotten to say his name in her nightly prayer. _Maybe he isn't as bad._

Refusing to think of it anymore, she tried to push the Hound back into a sitting position. His armor weighed him down, and the stench of his wounds got into her nose, gagging her. He dropped back to the ground as Arya turned away. Down the road, she heard hooves, and the sound of a man humming. Fear lunged into her chest, her hand went to Needle. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_, she commanded herself, drawing Needle.

Through the gloom, a man-shaped shadow walked beside a horse-shaped shadow. Arya had to squint to see them better, and when they came closer, she sucked in her breath. The man was big, almost as big as the Hound, but he didn't carry a sword. In fact, if it wasn't for his size, he would look no different than one of the Begging Brothers Arya had seen in King's Landing. Stranger was walking by his side, lead by his halter. Weirdly, Arya felt like she should hide the dogshead helm the Hound was so famous for. She turned, trying to find the ugly thing before the man came close. Spotting it beside the slumped figure of the Hound, she kicked the helm away, under Craven's hooves and behind the tree.

"Is this your horse, boy?" the stranger called, lifting a hand in friendly greeting.

"It... it is," Arya replied, holding Needle in front of her warily.

The large man stopped a distance away, eyes on the small sword. "You'll have no need for that," he said soothingly. His eyes moved from sword, to Arya, to the Hound. "He is wounded."

She didn't put Needle down, she learned enough to not trust strangers. "I was trying to get him to a Maester," she answered. "Stranger ran off when I tried saddling him."

The man looked at the horse beside him. "A blasphemous name," he said quietly. "It is a large task for a young girl."

Arya bristled, for the first time feeling angry that someone knew she was a girl. "I can handle myself."

The man tied Stranger to the tree and knelt next to the Hound. He hesitated only a moment before lifting the crude bandages Arya had wrapped around the man's head. His nose wrinkled, but his big hands didn't falter as he removed the bloody linen. "How long has he been like this?" he asked, though he didn't look up from his work.

"Since yesterday..."

"What did you use to stop the bleeding? To clean the wounds?"

"He just..." Arya stopped, looking to the Hound, a confused expression on her face. "He boiled wine."

The man shrugged a pack from his shoulders, opening it to dig through the contents. "Where is his helm?" he questioned.

"What helm?" Arya asked too quickly.

The man set aside clean strips of linen. As he pulled out a small vile, he smiled a small, sad smile. "I know this is Sandor Clegane, Joffrey's mad Hound."

"No, not Joffrey's anymore" Arya said firmly, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "He's my dog now."


	2. Chapter 2

**note:** I was toying with writing a second chapter, and ultimately couldn't resist. Your reviews and support are awesome, and I love you guys for it. I'm still undecided on if this will become a full story, but there are a few scenes that I want to write with Arya and Sandor that haven't been written here yet... Don't hold your breath, but cross your fingers and a third chapter might appear in the future! Thank you so much for your support. Please enjoy.

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><p>The man lifted Sandor under the armpits, raising him enough for Arya to slide the makeshift litter beneath his slumping body. Despite the Hound's weight, the man eased him down gently. Sandor moaned, sweat slicked down his scarred face, his body shivering. Arya stepped back from the litter, watching the man as he arranged the Hound to lay comfortably. When he had finished with the man, he took the ropes from the end of the litter and stepped up to Stranger. The warhorse stomped his hooves, but he didn't shy away or rear, as he had with Arya. Looping the rope around the horse, he fashioned a makeshift harness with the saddle he had placed onto Stranger while Arya built the litter.<p>

"Who are you?" Arya asked as they began walking, Arya leading her horse.

The man looked back at Sandor, to make sure he wasn't slipping off the litter as they walked. "I am the Elder Brother," he answered the Stark quietly. For such a large man, he had a soothing voice and a gentle touch.

"The elder brother of what?" Arya questioned.

The man smiled. "The Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle."

Arya pretended to know what this was, and dropped the subject there.

It felt like days before the pair neared any sort of village. Arya's feet were sore and her eyelids were heavy as lights appeared twinkling in the windows of a nearby hut. Elder Brother tied Stranger to a post inside the crude wooden gates, taking the rope from the horse's saddle and tossing it over his shoulder. He ordered Arya to leave her horse, and she did so. The Elder Brother put his weight into the rope, dragging Sandor's limp body into the small village.

"Is this Saltpans?" Arya asked. _Was it really so close? I could have made it._

"No," the Elder Brother answered with a grunt, perhaps a laugh but the weight of the Hound forced it out of him. "This is a farming family that has yet to be touched by war."

"Oh," Arya said sullenly.

Elder Brother knocked on the nearest door. A man answered shortly, gave one look to the Brother, and vanished behind the door. When he reappeared (Arya asked if he was coming back, it seemed to take a long time), he was holding a candle, lighting the gloom. He looked at the litter, then to the Brother.

"You can use our grain shed for the night," the man said, without any prompting.

Arya was significantly impressed by this power the Elder Brother possessed, and as they moved the Hound into the shed, she found herself thinking about the benefits of having such power. Her imagination didn't last long. She was told to fetch water, so she did. The bucket was heavy coming back, but she didn't stumble once. When she returned, the man had gone and the Elder Brother was unwrapping Sandor's wounds. Arya wrinkled her nose at the sight, setting the bucket of water beside the Elder Brother and stepping back to sit cross-legged on a sack of grain.

The Elder Brother worked long into the night. Dawn was peeking over the hills when he finally wrapped the last strip of clean linen around the Hound's wounded head. Arya jumped when the Elder Brother got to his feet. She blinked several times, realizing she had been dozing off as the man worked. The Hound's bandages were clean, but the ones that Arya had used were mounded near the foot of the litter, drenched in blood and ooze and gods-know-what.

"His wounds are severe," the Elder Brother said slowly, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.

"Will he..." Arya stopped herself, looking down at the Hound with an expression of curiosity and disgust.

"He may die," the Elder Brother said with a heavy sigh. "He may not."

"Oh."

"I must return to the Quiet Isle. I'll take the stallion with me to work."

"Stranger?" Arya asked suddenly.

"A blasphemous name," the Elder Brother replied. "I'll take him with me back to the Quiet Isle. If your dog returns to health, he may come to claim his horse."

Arya fell into thought, her brows knitting together. _He's not going to be happy_, she thought gloomily. If he did make it, and she wasn't sure he would with the way his brow was slicked in sweat and his bandages were soaking through, the Hound would be furious that something happened to his horse.

"You will need to clean his bandages three times a day, until his wounds begin to heal. Give him water once every hour, and if he wakes, try to make him eat something plain," the Elder Brother said, peering at Arya closely. "Can you do this?"

She puffed herself up, trying to seem important and strong. "Of course I can," she answered stubbornly.

"Good. The man who helped us last night is named Barlin, he will let you stay here until Sandor Clegane is able to leave, but he will want payment."

"Payment?"

"You will have to work, and he will want your horse."

Arya frowned, but nodded in understanding. She touched Needle, at her hip, and suddenly a thought came to her. "Will he want Needle?"

"You should not carry a sword," the Elder Brother answered her with a sad look. "But he will not ask it from you. He knows the dangerous times we live in."

Arya's eyes drifted to the Elder Brother's arm, where he held the dogshead helm. "What about that?"

"Sandor Clegane has no use for this anymore," he answered sagely. "He will no longer be known as the Hound, if he survives. He will be born a new man."

Arya wasn't so sure.

"Farewell, Arya of House Stark."

Days passed in a flurry as Arya toiled in the gardens and tended to the Hound. When she wasn't working, she was trying to sleep, but the Hound's moaning and thrashing kept her awake and Barlin refused to let her stay in a different house. One day, the Hound was getting better, and the next he was sweating, moaning and thrashing in his sleep. Arya did what the Elder Brother had told her. She wiped at his brow when she had the time, she trickled water into the Hound's lips, she changed his bandages. Everything she did seemed to work less and less. One night, after Arya returned from the gardens covered in dirt, a bunch of carrots clutched in her fist, the Hound opened his eyes.

Arya stopped in the doorway, staring at the big man, her eyes locked on his.

"Water," the Hound croaked.

She dropped her carrots, crossing to the Hound's side and scooping the ladle into the water. Lifting it to the Hound's lips, she was surprised when the man gripped the handle and poured the entire contents over his face. He sputtered, water going everywhere.

"More," he demanded roughly.

Arya took the ladle, dipped it into the bucket again, and handed it to him. He drank it slower this time, but his shaking hands spilled some into the days-old beard growing over his face. Arya backed away, sitting on the stack of grain that she has been sleeping on.

"You tried to kill me," the Hound growled, his voice hoarse.

Arya didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. After a long silence, she realized the Hound had fallen back asleep. Situating herself on the sack of grain, she pulled a thin blanket over her shoulders and tried to sleep. Heavy breathing and the fitful snores from the Hound's position made her toss and turn, until she couldn't take any more. She slipped out of her bed, picked up Needle, and padded to Sandor's side. Fondling Needle's hilt, she stared down at the sleeping man with contempt. _I can kill him now, and all this can be over. I can get on a ship at Saltpans and I can find Jon. _With everything in her grasp, Arya lifted Needle. She remembered where the heart was. She didn't need Sandor's help.

The Hound grunted in his sleep, a heavy hand reaching out to grab Arya's hip. She jumped, and the Hound opened his eyes. "Again?"

Arya pulled out of the Hound's grip and returned to her grain stack. She wasn't afraid of him, the Hound couldn't do anything to her now. She could kill him at any time. But to her, it seemed like a waste of time. After spending all this time taking care of him, she couldn't just kill him. Even if she wanted to. It wasn't the Stark way, or they would have killed Theon Greyjoy instead of taking him in as a Ward. _Maybe father should have killed Theon. Winterfell would still be there._

Thoughts of Jon Snow slowly leaked from her mind as the time went by. She spent longer in the gardens, after Barlin tried to put her in the kitchen and she set fire to the cabinets. The Hound gained strength back and was seen for brief moments outside of the grain shed, walking slowly, standing in the sun with a glare on his scarred face. When he was well enough to lift a shovel, Barlin set him to work in the fields, but made it incredibly clear that they weren't welcome much longer than they'd already stayed. With winter howling down from the North and war threatening to encroach on their tiny slice of life, Barlin couldn't protect his own family, let alone two strangers.

The night Sandor brought up leaving, he was seated at a barrel of onions and Arya was dropping carrots into a boiling pot of water. He spoke of where they would go and how they would get there. When he began speaking of the next place they would go, he paused, and seemed to have a thought.

"Where is my horse?"

Arya stirred the carrots faster, looking down.

"I would have asked sooner," the Hound growled dangerously. "Where is my horse?"

"The Elder Brother took him," Arya mumbled into the meager soup.

Silence filled the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire beneath Arya's pot.

"Took him," the Hound repeated. After no answer, he slammed his fist on the barrel. "You let someone _take _my horse?"

"He saved your stupid life!" Arya shouted back, throwing the ladle down and standing.

The Hound snarled, his eyes bright and feverish. "I never asked for it!"

Arya clenched her fists. "No! You asked for mercy that you didn't deserve!"

"Is that why you've been trying to kill me in my sleep, she-wolf?"

Arya didn't respond. She glared at the man angrily, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. The silence settled awkwardly over the pair as they stared each other down. Finally, the Hound spoke.

"Where is this man?"

"He said you can get Stranger back at the Quiet Isle."

Sandor snorted throwing his hand up. "A holy man." After a strangled grunt of anger, he scratched his bearded chin. "We leave at dawn. I'm sick of toiling in a field like a bloody farmer. Get some sleep, you're going to need it, girl."

Arya didn't ask where they would get a second horse. She didn't want to know.


End file.
